


Reconstruct

by Trash_King



Category: DRAMAtical Murder (Visual Novel), DRAMAtical Murder - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 18:34:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3906466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash_King/pseuds/Trash_King
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mizuki struggles to come to terms with himself after the damage left by the trash twins’ meddling as well as Aoba’s failure to Scrap him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reconstruct

**Author's Note:**

> Before I begin, please note that this contains heavy mentions of emotional abuse as well as unhealthy relationship dynamics. Do read with discretion. If subjects pertaining to this makes you uneasy/triggers terrible memories, it's best not to delve deeper. I'm personally a survivor of emotional abuse (still struggling to survive actually) and having lived a prolonged period of time in a toxic environment can really affect and alter your perception and the way you go about things in life. This is a piece I'm writing for catharsis- I can't really explain it. But it helps.

He comes to him in fevered dreams.  
In the cusp between waking and sleep, lingering- acrid, bitter to the palate. Muted by the lull of booze, the edge eased with help of medications intended for alleviating taut nerves and helpful distractions but he’s still there.  
He sees him watching.  
  
A traitorous representation of twisted morality with it’s roots planted in too deep to be extracted for fear of ruin and rot.  
Or perhaps, the _emptiness_ , once it’s been uprooted.  
  
His wounds heal. He’s released and he goes home. Back to his friends, back to what remains of his Team, back to his usual routine but it’s not the same.  
  
Nothing is the same and he knows that it won’t be, not for a long time.  
  
  
Mizuki sees it sometimes- the looks Aoba would give him when he thinks he’s not looking, guilt and shame warring, weighing heavily in the lines of his brows. Aoba feels responsible for hurting him, for not noticing that something was awfully wrong and for all of his attempts at cracking jokes, for all of his forgiveness, it stays. Some nights, when it gets particularly difficult, Mizuki is inclined to agree. Koujaku, on the other hand, treats him like he’s glass that’s inches away from shattering into shards. Unsure and uneasy with forced laughter and an overly cheerful demeanour, keen to pretend as if everything is alright- his way of being considerate. He’s glad that he doesn’t ask questions. Though a part of him questions if he only cares because Aoba does.  
  
But that’s not him talking. That’s not _him_. Yet...who was _he_? It’s difficult to remember when certain sections of your memory were blank. They won’t understand and he cannot explain.  
He remembers in his dreams. That awful all encompassing tune he’s forced to submit to, plunging in deep, removing parts and pieces and shifting things all around. How someone reached in and pulled out parts of him to replace it with something foreign easily without his permission, without control, festering and breeding into something equally as twisted as he was, laughter mocking and cruel despite their cadence, the wicked curves of his smile and a sliver of teeth.  
  
It felt like violation of the worst degree. It felt like betrayal.  
It felt like benediction. It felt like freedom.  
And it makes his skin _crawl_.  
  
How was someone supposed to move on after all this? How was he to carry on functioning as usual when he can’t remember what that was like?  
How was he to carry on when he knows now that even his own control, everything he had and held dear could be ripped away from him if that man wished to do so?

The brunette tries, of course he does. He tends to his duties. Talks to his customers. Buys a few rounds of drinks and keeps going until he can barely walk a straight line. Checks and checks his locks and makes sure his Team were safe each night. And he absolutely does not flinch when someone raises their hand too fast in their attempt to make a toast.  
  
His hands do not shake when their line of sight briefly glances at his throat. He obviously does not skip the alleyways and cross over to the opposite side when he sees the slightest movements inside. And if he lingers. If he looks with a fist against the soft parts of his throat for a pair of cyan eyes, if he dreams of the slip slide of teeth against flesh or callused fingers against the jutting of his hips, if he wakes overly heated with tears prickling in his eyes and a heavy pressure against his diaphragm, if he shivers upon recalling the timbre and pitch of a particularly lazy drawl persuading ever so sweetly. If some days, he longs to return. If a part of him aches and yearns. If a part of him’s screaming, wishing to return.  
No one has to know.

They are much quiet now after Oval Tower collapsed and light was shed on Toue’s activities- disappeared without a trace.  
But he knows he’s still here. Still waiting. Still watching.  
And when he decide, if he decides to come back for him, he can only hope that he’d be strong enough to put an end to it all.  
But for now, he sleeps and he dreams of the sharp saccharine sweet curves of a grin.


End file.
